But all day long within her bower she wept,
Still dreaming of the dames renown'd of old,
Whom hate or love of the Immortals swept
Within the toils of Ate manifold;
And most she loved the ancient tales that told
How the great Gods, at length to pity stirr'd,
Changed Niobe upon the mountains cold,
To a cold stone; and Procne to a bird,
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